


Dreaming in Colour

by TheBraveHobbit, theharellan



Series: I Have Found a Home (Ian x Solas) [5]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Inspired by Roleplay/Roleplay Adaptation, M/M, Other, Roleplay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-17
Updated: 2017-11-17
Packaged: 2019-02-03 15:37:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,234
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12751209
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheBraveHobbit/pseuds/TheBraveHobbit, https://archiveofourown.org/users/theharellan/pseuds/theharellan
Summary: Ian Lavellan was born in a world without colour, but in dreams, the world is what Solas wills it. This is his gift to the one he loves.





	Dreaming in Colour

**Author's Note:**

> Iander Lavellan is penned by dalishfreckles. This is part of a series of drabbles & roleplays about the relationship between their (non-Inquisitor) Lavellan and Solas as interpreted by myself. This is a repost of a roleplay. Canon divergent.
> 
> Breaks represent a change in POV. Words between《》are spoken in Anders.

Sleep claimed him quickly, he slipped into the Fade like sand through and hourglass. Solas could never properly describe the feeling of walking through the Fade, words always failed him (it did not stop him from trying). He moved, not always with purpose, allowing the Fade to draw him to new places each day. It pulled at him like the tide around his ankle, never jerking him, it was always his choice.

Ian’s dreams pulled harder, more insistent than the whispers of spirits and other dreamers. They called for him, and carried his feet quicker through the Fade when he answered the call.

A world unfolded around him, the black rock beneath his feet became brown dirt. Each step stirred dust. In an instant his world changed, he had stepped from the Fade and into a dream. A roof appeared over his head and the light around him darkened, the room lit by daylight pouring in from a single window.

The inside was drab. He recognised some of the belongings as Ian’s, journals and books that he had saved all these years. “This was your home, once,” he remarked, knowing that Ian could hear him, even if he was not in plain sight.

Outside he could see grey skies, a dust cloud hung over a painted tree. If he squinted he could see a Black City that lay beyond the dream. “An Alienage? Seems a strange place to dream of.”

“Why here?”

* * *

Not all mages are dreamers, though all mages dream. For Ian, being aware of the dream did not always allow him to direct it—at most he could force through the illusion and step into the Fade beyond. There was no purpose to that, when the dream he found tonight was so pleasant. 

The Alienage apartment was not a large dwelling—only one room of several in a building designed to house fewer than it did. Across the hall a family of four shared the same amount of space. Waves of fond nostalgia combatted with distress for a moment, and he hovered at the doorway as though stepping through would assure him that all was well. _This is a dream. It is memory and the workings of your mind, not a scry. You’ll find no answers._ This is a dream. And yet he hovered still. 

Dreams felt more solid when Solas stepped into them, he had noticed. The lines were more crisp to the edges of his vision, though he knew the Fade waited in hazy folds just beyond that. Ian himself was not certain he had had shape before he moved to stand nearer to the other. His hand passed over Solas’ own as he walked by, fingers brushing softly over skin before he took one further step and dropped onto a stool near the window. 

Solas’ questions made him smile, a soft, wry expression that said he didn’t expect the other to understand. “As you said, it was my home.” His chin fell into his palm, and his gaze turned to take in the tree that served as the center of the elves’ neighborhood. “Where else should a man dream of?”

* * *

Ian’s dreams were not perfect. He could see the seams, the occasional flash of green lit the sky like strange lightning. The Inquisitor dreamed with such clarity, but they had the benefit of the Anchor guiding their dreams.

He watched the heavens intently, his hand clenching and unclenching as Ian’s fingers brushed against him.“I am not the man you want to ask that question to,” Solas replied softly. “I rarely have dreams of my own. And not only that, I…” Home was such a hazily defined word, perhaps one day he would dream of Skyhold and think of it as home. It would be more pleasant than the alternative. “I have not had a home in… a very long time. I have wandered for long I scarcely know the meaning of the word.”

A sigh passed between gently parted lips as he tore his gaze from the window. “Tell me about it,” he prodded gently. So often he was the one being asked questions (it was not a complaint— in fact, he enjoyed it) that it was nice to be the one on the opposite side of things.

Without his staff he felt at a loss, he leaned upon the wall instead, arms folded over his chest. A playful smile played over his lips as he added, “If it has ensnared your mind so, I wish to know of it.”

* * *

Ian laughed, gaze returning to study the other where Solas leaned upon the wall of his once-home. As dreams often do, the sight sent his imagination rambling more-so than his waking mind was inclined to. How strange to see the wandering apostate trying to find his ease within the confines of this dwelling. Strange, and yet…Ian felt his smile broaden. 

“Homes take many forms, I’ve found.”

It took great effort to rally his thoughts and return his attention to Solas’ question before the dream restructured itself around his fantasies. 

“There is little to tell. You have walked in the dreams of far greater men, I doubt you will find much of interest in such a humble vision as mine. You will find no stories here, nor great adventures. At least, it was so when I took my leave. I hope it remains that way, though I’m not so foolish as to believe such. I wonder still, if leaving was right. I returned to Ferelden when the Rebellion arose, to help where I may, but…” His gaze wandered again, out the window. He could almost see the Breach, a great ghastly maw summoned by his own anxiety to shadow the quiet haven of his Alienage. “Everything is different, now, and I have received no word.”

* * *

“Indeed it does. I have found home under broad branches that shelter me from spring rains, and dry barns where I was permitted to stay for a few nights. Though I often had to share the latter. On more than one occasion I awoke to find a goat trying to make a meal of my robes.” He chuckled, the sound seemed to move the dream around them, bare wooden walls shimmered. The unabashed snort that followed put an abrupt stop to it.

Solas felt a pull, the room around them stretched the walls, only to snap back into place. Dreams were fickle things, that Ian could focus upon this Alienage home without the Dreamer’s help was impressive.

He fell silent for a moment, chin bowing so that it almost touched his chest. After a moment he said, “Once I found myself in the memory of a servant from the Dales, a woman who served some merchant of little import. She slew no dragons, nor signs no treaties, yet in one hour I learned more about the society of the Dales than whole books had taught me. I delve into the past to find forgotten history, and there is no history as swiftly forgotten as the history of an oppressed people.”

Stepping forward, he took Ian’s hand, thumb brushing over freckled fingers. “There are a thousand ‘great’ men, you are unique.” Solas might bear the memories of kings, but he had never fought for them. “Of course, if you do not wish to tell me, I will respect that.”

* * *

Ian smiled at the touch, turning away from the window to look up at Solas, unashamed of the adoration in his own expression. “I’ve no secrets from you,” He said softly, “it is more that…I fear you may someday grow weary of my simplicity.” 

Fingers tangling loosely between Solas’, Ian stood. If Solas wished to know more about Ian’s home, Ian would not deny him the vision. His dream shifted focus, folding and twisting and restructuring around them with dizzying speed. Ian’s gentle hold on Solas’ hand was all the anchor he needed, however, and when world restructured, he did not let go.

The pair stood upon the apartment’s roof, gaze turned out over the rest of the settlement. Ian’s dreams, he knew, colored the vision with fondness. The downfall, or perhaps virtue, of revisiting in this way. Only the parts he missed need be present, and looking out over the streets he could see the faces of those who had become his friends and family in the near-decade of time he had resided here. 

“Hahren! _《What are you looking at? I brought the baskets.》_ ” More a memory than a dream, then, and he felt himself turn into it, words shaping on his lips without conscious thought. How long had it been since he’d said anything in Ander? Even after so long disused, it felt as natural as the common tongue.

“ _《They are hanging the lights upon the tree. There’s little left to do, then, before tonight.》_ ”

Fingers still laced between Solas’, Ian’s heart tugged in two directions. Integration into the dream was as tempting as leaning into Solas’ company. He smiled at his love, tilting his head to indicate Solas should turn around. “Have I ever shown you my garden?”

* * *

Solas’s smile was warm, but thin. A thousand secrets burned in the back of his throat, but he dared not speak them, not even here. “I’ve seen no evidence of this simplicity. Perhaps the life you led here was simple, but that is not the same.” There were simple lords and high-minded peasants, but none could quite compare to Ian.

The world turned around them, bending at a thought. Where there was once ceiling, there was now sky. From up here he could see the Alienage clearly. The streets were cramped, but not the rundown ghettos Solas had visited in other memories. Whether it was a reflection of reality or Ian’s imagination, he could not say. Now was not the time to ask.

His ears perked up at the sound of a language he did not know. The harsh language of the Anderfels felt odd paired with his mother tongue.

“No, and yet I am not surprised to hear you had one.” He turned, breathing in deep. Solas caught the scent of herbs in the air, stronger in the Fade than they were in Thedas. The garden looked strange in shades of grey, leaves stretched towards a white sky. He could not tell if it was cloud, or if blue sky looked like that when there was no colour in the world.

His fingers slipped from Ian’s momentarily, kneeling down before a plot of soil. Solas hummed in thought, taking a flower between two fingers. He did not snap it off, but turned it gently, watching the light play off the petals. “You’ve seen me walk through dreams,” he began, slowly. “But have I ever told you that I can change them, too?”

* * *

Distraction claimed Ian for a moment as Solas knelt to caress a blossom. The dream itself still pulled at his attention, his nostalgia, his constant desire to be two places at once. The language of his home echoed in his ears, aimless chatter that was much missed. Arid wind stirred his hair, even on this rare and overcast day, and he took a wandering step towards Solas, the ghostly figures of his memory fading from notice as the other elf consumed his focus.

He watched as Solas turned the petals with the gentle touch of someone who possessed acute awareness of life’s frailty, even in dreams. Here in the Anderfels, every blossom was a minor miracle, and Ian’s heart ached a little to remember how accomplished he had felt as the first creeping sprout had stretched skyward in defiance of the harsh desert world. Even here, an attentive hand could coax growth, could nurture what existed until it had the chance to thrive. So little about life here had been easy, but it had always been rewarding, and he missed his garden as much as he missed anything else about his home.

Solas’s words reached him as if from across a great distance, and he knelt beside his love, hands braced on his knees to balance him where he crouched on his toes.

“Change them?” He blinked, studying Solas’s face with curiosity. What part of his dream needed to be changed? Had he forgotten something that Solas wanted to see, or was there another dream Solas would prefer to explore? “How?”

* * *

In dreams it was impossible to tell the work that had been put into the garden. Magic was everywhere here, but still he wondered if Ian had put more into these plants than his time and energy. In Arlathan magic had dug canals and given life to withered and dried plants, but in those days they had nothing to hide. Even in his little village they would always cook the day’s catch upon fires that burned in hues of blue and green.

Gently, he brushed his thumb across the flower and felt its velvet touch beneath his fingers. When he breathed in he conjured memories of tomatoes, half-cooked under hot suns and herbs that made even the most humble garden smell like the kitchens of Val Royeaux.

A secretive smile stole across Solas’s features, crinkling the corners of his eyes. He reached forward and grasped a plump tomato, so that it rested between slightly open fingers. In shades of grey it was difficult to tell how ripe it truly was, but the skin felt firm when he pressed upon it with the side of his thumb. “Allow me to demonstrate,” he said with a confidence that belied his misgivings. He had changed dreams in the past, but never like this.

With a steady stroke of his hand he turned grey to vibrant red, as if the dream was just another one of his paintings. Yet he treated it with more care than any mural that decorated the Inquisition’s walls, not allowing Ian to see until he had gotten the skin the perfect shade– so that the colours shone against the white hot sun.

“Do you see a difference?” he asked, dropping the fruit so it swung to and fro upon a black and white vine. “If it’s not to your tastes, I can change it back.”

* * *

The mischief in Solas’s expression doubled Ian’s curiosity, and he rocked where he crouched, impatience manifesting in fidgeting movement. Solas turned a tomato over in his hands, fingers dancing over the thin skin of the fruit with a purpose Ian could not quite fathom until Solas released it, allowing it to swing back on the vine.

It was–

Ian’s eyes grew wide, and his restless movement stilled in his awe. Mouth slightly agape, his hand stretched forward in tentative wonderment, stopping just short of the tomato, as if afraid his touch might banish the brightness Solas had summoned.

“It–” His fingers withdrew a fraction of an inch, hesitating before gently cupping the fruit, turning it over in his fingers to watch the light play off the different shades. “I–”

His throat tightened, emotion catching there.

He’d never resented his colorblindness–indeed, he’d been fairly old before he’d even realized that he saw the world a little differently than others. The existence of shades he couldn’t differentiate was more a curiosity than anything, and he knew the concept, the labels, even if to him they seemed much the same. The sky was blue. Grass was green. Tomatoes were– “Rot: red,” he murmured.

“Is…it’s so bright! Does all the world look this way?”

* * *

Solas smiled more than most people assumed, his lips quick to lift in small smirks and polite smiles, but he did not often grin. ‘Reserved’ was the best way to describe it, even the most genuine smiles hinted that he was holding something back. Yet he made no effort to temper the grin that parted his lips and put a twinkle in his eye, watching Ian’s expression brighten so.

He laughed, not disguising the snort that followed. Relief washed over him, and pride surged within. “It would depend upon who you ask,” he answered wryly. In castles tomatoes were as common as dirt, nothing to marvel at, but in the heart of a poor Alienage they were more valuable than gold. “I would say so, yes.”

“But I would rather you see for yourself.”

A pale finger stroked a vine, sending tendrils of colour shooting through the garden. He stood, leaning over the patch of soil to breathe life into flowers. White petals with yellow centers, lilac buds on the stem of unassuming stalks, changed with a thought. The dream felt heavier now that he had tampered with it, but he took care not to change what Ian had laid out for him.

Solas had taken up art on a whim, an idle fancy that became an unquenchable passion since the first time he dipped his brush into paint. Now it seemed as if it had been preparing him for this moment, where he coloured the dreams of the elf he loved–

It was a foolish thought, but it made him smile.

* * *

He reveled in the sound of Solas’s laughter. It was rich and warm, and far too rare for as lovely as it was. Shared here, in Ian’s dream, it was like a secret gift meant only for him, as precious and generous as the colors that slowly overtook his Alienage home. It settled in his ears like music, and they flit forward attentively as he stood, watching with wide-eyed wonderment as the garden shifted and changed, coming into a new kind of life beneath the loving touch of an artist.

Tears pooled in the corners of his vision, blurring the colors together, blending them until he swiped the moisture away. How had he never realized that green came in so many different tones? That the flowers on his cucumbers were every bit as vibrant as the sun their petals turned to face? That even the softest shade of purple caught light and made it dance?

Ian’s breath hung tightly in his throat as he watched his garden blossom in a way he’d never been able to even imagine, and when he turned to thank Solas, he was struck by something odd.

“Solas,” he said softly, reaching to take his love by the hand, thumb applying gentle pressure to a palm as he requested attention.

“It’s…it’s lovely,” he began, because it was. “But…”

Pulling gently, he all but forgot the garden as he turned his love to face him, staring intently at the features whose monochrome shades now seemed strangely off-set compared to the vibrant backdrop. He reached, hand cupping Solas’s cheek, a grin splitting his own face as he requested, “You have forgotten the colors I most would like to see.”

* * *

Solas spent his waking hours hunched over a canvas, or staring at half-painted walls. He enjoyed this time spent painting, truly, but the Fade was more pliable a medium than any brush. It yielded to his every touch, and what he did now was child’s play. He might have felt foolish colouring in the lines of this world were it not for the disbelief in Ian’s eyes. He wanted to remember that look, the tears that welled up in the corner of his eyes only to be swiped away. He needed to remember, he thought, glancing from his work to count the laugh lines that wrinkled his love’s face.

His fingers bent, pulling the strings of the Fade, turning it to his will. Between wisps of cloud and dust there was a hint of blue that could not be killed, not even by the greyest of skies.

In spite of all the power he wielded in this world a single touch from Ian stilled his hand. It commanded him in a way nothing had before, compelling him to turn to meet his eyes. Grey did not suit Ian, yet it took away none of his warmth – his eyes shone.The mere thought distracted Solas enough that colour began to creep from the tips of Ian’s fingers up his arm. Freckles glowed, then settled into a soft brown.

“I see.” Heat crept up the back of Solas’s neck, a smile burgeoned upon his lips.

So long as they were in this world, neither of them were quite real. Even he, who knew the Fade more intimately than any city in Theads, would never belong to it so long as the curtain was drawn between the worlds. And yet it felt as if Ian could unmake it all with the touch.

“ _Ir abelas, Vhenan_. I was…” Excited. “Distracted. Fortunately, my oversight is easily remedied.” He smiled, for ginger hair now fell over hazel eyes, and the world was as he remembered it.

Ian’s words were enough to make Solas’s chest swell, and he substituted the empty, airy feeling with a kiss. He wasted no time guiding his lips down to meet Ian’s, catching his bottom lip between his own. Colour spread across his features, and Solas spared no detail. Perhaps he could have masked the pink glow of his ears, or the ever-present bags beneath his eyes, but he made them as they were. His eyes closed, arms wrapping around Ian’s figure as faded dye shot into the threads of his clothing.

The last thing that remained were his eyes, hidden beneath heavy lids. The kiss broke, and Solas pulled back just enough for Ian to see. His eyes opened–

Blue eyes, the shade of the sky on a cold winter morning, but they did not lack in tenderness.

* * *

Ian watched as Solas’s pale skin grew darker, heat rising from beneath his sweater to tint his cheeks and the furthest tips of his ears. He hardly noticed the burst of color that spread from his fingers and warmed his skin, so fascinated was he by the effect his request had upon his love.

Brightness continued to overwhelm this canvas, this place of thought and fantasy and wishing, and Ian’s eyes lost focus for the span of a breath as the hair that curtained his vision suddenly shifted, red tones casting a strange frame through which he could see the world. His distraction was displaced, attention reclaimed as Solas closed the space between them. Even his wonderment, his fascination with this change to his vision, could not keep his eyes from fluttering shut, his lashes falling to tickle the creases of his cheeks as he smiled into the kiss. Solas’s hand slid free of his grip, falling to hitch in the bend of Ian’s waist, pulling until Ian could feel the beat of a heart whose rhythm matched his own far too neatly.

He forgot all about color, about desert Alienages and rooftop gardens and lights hung in the Vhenadahl. He forgot he was asleep, and he forgot this was a dream. He forgot everything, because nothing in the realm of dreams or the waking world could enrapture him the way that this embrace did, and though he and Solas were no more real than the roof they stood upon, his entire existence was composed of only this, of the hands at his waist and the heart against his own and the lips that moved against his tongue.

A soft noise of protest sounded when Solas pulled away, though their hold on each other did not permit him to travel far. Ian’s fingers wound in the fabric at Solas’s waist, but his breath hitched as his eyes opened.

“ _Sehen aber_ …” he murmured, words wavering unsteadily past the taste of Solas’s kiss. The whole of his vision was filled with a shade of blue he knew would never be matched by any color Solas might endeavor to show him. Hands loosened, raising to trail with tender amazement over freckled cheeks, flushed with the most endearing shade of pink he could imagine. “I had always known you are beautiful, Vhenan, but–”

He laughed a little, embarrassed by the moisture that dampened his cheeks. Even in dreams he could not stem his tears, and over the silliest of things. He lifted a hand to cover his face, and wondered at the heat he felt there–was his own blush as flattering as the one that colored his love’s cheeks?–as his other hand fell to land against that heartbeat.

“Forgive me. I must seem very foolish.”

* * *

It felt vain, painting his own skin. Self portraiture had never been his specialty, only a tool used for practise when he was a young man. Even at his most arrogant he had never been vain, his body had always been nothing but a vessel with which he could experience the world. The effort was worth the result, a touch of vanity was forgivable, he thought, to see the look on Ian’s face.

A quiet voice within him wondered how he had let this go so far, a part of him that knew it could not stay this way forever. Sooner or later, one way or another, it would be him who instigated Ian’s misery. The voice was drowned out by by the sound of Ian’s voice. It was difficult, nearly impossible, to look to the future when the present looked like this. Ian’s touch was cool against his reddened cheeks. His eyes began to fall shut as they stroked his cheekbone, catching himself just as ginger lashes brushed beneath his eye. He kept them open for Ian’s sake, although it meant witnessing every flaw he had made painting his love’s face. It would take an hour to perfect his eyes, whose colour seemed flat in comparison to the real thing. They did not shift with every turn of his head, reflecting the light in changing colours of green and brown.

“Beautiful?” The question was punctuated by a gentle chuckle. “I have been told I am many things, but never beautiful.”

His hand fell from Ian’s back, lifting to catch the one that covered his face. “Don’t…” he murmured, taking care to pull it gently away. Solas intertwined their fingers, thumb drawing absent circles along the back of his love’s hand. Though Ian’s face was obscured no longer, it meant Solas had no free hands to wipe the the wet trail that had begun to dry on freckled cheeks. “You look like an elf who has been shown the world for a second time.” His gaze dropped to his lips, tracing over the grin that had not faltered through the tears. “There is nothing to be ashamed of, not with me.”

Solas’s heart lifted in his chest, torn between words of comfort and closing the distance between them again. He untangled his fingers from Ian’s, the air that rushed between them was cool, but short lived. His slid his hand up, cupping the back of Ian’s neck. Ginger hair filled the space between his fingers, curling around pale knuckles.

Bowing his head, he bounced their forehead together, pressing his against Ian’s fringe. From this distance hazel eyes blended into one, the lines of his smile were less pronounced, but no less fascinating when viewed from this angle. His lips parted, breath hitching as a word caught in his throat. He wanted to say something, a pleasant thought that Ian would feel ghosted across his lips. ‘I love you’ was too simple, ‘you are beautiful’ had been stolen from him by the same mouth he longed to kiss.

He breathed laughter instead of words, which were all but lost to him, now.

* * *

“N-no? Then I and many others have shown you unforgivable neglect.”

The compliment was sincere; Ian’s eyes widened in genuine surprise to hear that none before had thought to comment on Solas’s beauty. The expression was hidden behind his hand, words muffled into the curve of his own palm before Solas reached to pull his hand away. Their fingers intertwined, and Ian was left with nowhere to hide his tears. Solas closed the distance between them, fingers catching in tangled hair as their foreheads met. Against his palm, Ian could feel a pause, Solas’s breath caught for a moment in his lungs as though it had tried to find more solid form than the laughter that warmed Ian’s lips.

“ _Danke für das schöne Geschenk_.” His gratitude spilled as readily as his tears, the heartfelt thanks slipping past his tongue in a language Solas did not speak. Ian laughed at himself, at the mistake, mind stretching to find the words he needed in languages he did not wield so well. “ _Ahn…_ _Nuvas ema ir’enastela_. I am overwhelmed. I–”

He wanted to continue, to find more meaningful ways to express his wonder. Words were not enough, though they were all he could offer. Watching the way Solas’s eyes–blue eyes, he now knew, with grey that swept through like crisp spring rains–blended together and fell to study his lips, he considered that there may be a more eloquent way than words to explain his meaning. There was hardly distance to close, but he lifted his face, intending to press their lips together in another all-consuming kiss.

There was no warning, no gentle transition from the realm of dreams into terror. The bright gift of color that had so invigorated the dream around him bled and twisted, hues melting and blackening in rapid retreat as the open air of the Alienage rooftop dissipated. The embrace that held him changed too, from the gentle touch of a lover to the heavy vice of of hands he writhed against. Cold, cold, cold, cold. Ice in his lungs and in his heart and over his skin. Darkness and cold overtook his mind and the dream allowed him no escape. The prison of the nightmare was as inescapable as any other that had ever trapped him, and despair denied him even the fantasy of flight. There was no out-running darkness when the pressure on his skin was more binding than physical chains. Beneath his fear, frantic whispers reminded him that he was dreaming, that this nightmare was no different than any other, but the knowledge was smothered before it could take hold in his heart, his terror too complete to allow himself even the thinnest of comforts.

The nightmare was short lived; relief came quickly, though in his panic he felt as though ages of the world have passed while he drowned. Ian’s eyes flung open with desperation, and at first he could not recognize the ceiling as Skyhold. His chest heaved and his body trembled, and long seconds passed before he possessed enough of himself to slide from beneath Solas. His motions were as careful as he could make them, overcome as he yet was, in the empty hope that perhaps he had not disturbed his love’s sleep so much as he had his own. Bare feet carried him across cold floors, and the chill of the waking world added to the ice that still flooded his veins as he leaned heavily on the frame of the open window. He needed to feel wind on his skin; even the perpetual winter of these mountains was preferable to air that sat stagnant. He needed to breathe.

* * *

The tongue of the Anderfels had never sounded pleasant, not to Solas. It sounded harsh and angry, even if the speaker said only the gentlest of words. Upon Ian’s lips it was softer, though the exact meaning of the words remained a mystery he could feel the gratitude. Here, in a world where feelings were as real as the ground they stood on, there was no need for clarification. Ian gave it anyway,words forming again, this time in a language Solas could feel in his bones. It was the remnant of a childhood that had been stolen from his love, and it tripped over his tongue, familiar and forgotten.

“ _Ara melava son’ganem_.” He would gladly a lifetime rendering every inch of Ian’s world in colour, but it seemed one evening would have to do. 

Their noses bumped together, the tips bending as they brushed against one another. His eyes fell shut, the image of Ian’s smile living on in his mind. Solas’s lips parted gently in anticipation of the kiss that never came.

The world shook the colour from its skin. It retreated, ‘til only the green in Ian’s eyes remained. All the air, the happy sighs and wistful words, was stolen from Solas’s lungs. Ian no longer rested peacefully in his arms. He wrenched away, twisting from Solas’s embrace and into the arms of a nightmare. The second he was torn away his fingers began to unravel before his eyes. The edges of his skin melted into black, and he flexed hands that were no longer there.

It was an illusion, a mistake he could undo with a touch. If only he could reach the dreamer. “Ian.” His love’s name sounded on formless lips, his voice calm in amongst the storm of whispers. He reached out– or at least, he felt his arm lift, fingers uncurling to brush the hair that had fallen in Ian’s eyes. Yet the farther he stretched, the greater the expanse became.

Until all at once it was gone.

Solas stood on bare rock, the sickly green mark of the Fade swirled around him, granting him his shape once more. There was no hint of Ian, only an emptiness that felt large enough to swallow him whole. He took a breath, eyes closing once more– when they opened, he was in bed. Alone. The hand that had once rested atop Ian’s chest now fisted in empty sheets. His head lifted, turning to watch the trembling silhouette Ian formed by the window.

Blankets slipped from his body as he sat up. Without magic cloaking him goosebumps ran up his arms and over his bare shoulders. His feet padded gingerly across the floor, anticipating Ian’s apology as he approached. Solas stopped short, his feet aligned with the backs of Ian’s heels. He hesitated to hold him, afraid the feeling of his embrace would feel as much like a cage as the nightmare they had escaped moments ago.

Instead, he leaned forward, burying his face in Ian’s hair. His head tilted to one side, freeing his lips enough to mumble a suggestion. “Would you not prefer a walk?”

* * *

Sheets shifted, rustling behind him as Solas roused. At the window, Ian bowed his head, posture drooping in silent defeat before he straightened. His eyes ached, burning and burdened as though the shadows beneath them had physical weight, but the darkness he met upon allowing his lids to drift down was too vast, too complete, too cold. There was iron there, and suffering, and fear. It was unbearable, more so than his weariness, and he stared without seeing, unable to focus on anything beyond the window’s frame, grateful for the moonlight that brightened the early morning hours.

“I’m sorry. You gave me such a gift and I…”

The frequency of his nightmares, the restlessness of his sleep, had never troubled him before. It had been a part of his reality for longer than he cared to remember, a discomfort that was an easy exchange for his liberty. The terror of his dreams was only that, and his shaking would pass and his fear was dissipating. He had not given thought to his inability to pass a restful night, until Solas had followed him into dreams. Now, his horrors troubled the sleep of someone he loved, and he could do nothing to prevent it.

“I’m sorry. Night after night, I’m sorry. You would find more rest if you did not share my dreams.”

His gaze drifted down, blankly observing the white clench of his knuckles where his hands fisted the frame of the window. The tension there was tight and bloodless, stark against the bruised discoloration of his wrists. The scars were pink, he thought, vaguely wondering how closely pink resembled red. Red was so vibrant–beautiful on a tomato, but…Fingers fretted at themselves, at bare wrists, wringing bubbled skin over one wrist before changing hands to mirror the motion, back and forth in restless repetition. There were no gloves to straighten, no sleeves to pull down, and his hands fell over his scars as though hiding them might put them from his mind.

Solas nosed into his hair, and Ian leaned back. The stripes that marred his shoulders seared as he pressed into Solas’s bare chest, fire rising like panic before ebbing into a dull burn.

“Perhaps.” His agreement came with uncertainty. Walking might ease the aching in his feet, the restless pull of a body ten years free and still unsure of liberty, but he was as weary as he was anxious. “Dawn is some hours away; you might still sleep a bit more.”

* * *

Solas hated to think of what Ian’s nights were like before they had met. The ice from his dreams snaked up his spine, and clung to him in the waking world. To wake up alone, with naught but the sound of his fractured breathing to accompany him– it was not a thought he cared to linger on. In time even nightmares could become routine, but that did not comfort him.

His eyes closed, and memories that did not belong to him replayed in his mind. He preferred the Alienage, with its low ceiling and wide windows. On his nose he felt wiry strands of his hair blown by the night air. The wind never seemed to stop blowing at Skyhold, from mountain peaks blew cool breezes that coaxed bumps along Solas’s spine.

_I’m sorry._

Words Ian uttered often, too often. He could not blame him– there were only so many times one could hear they were cursed before their very existence seemed a mistake. Pink lips parted, and he drew in a slow breath. The cold air burned the back of his throat and pulled the sleep from his head.

_I’m sorry._

Skin scraped against skin, Solas had grown used to the delicate sound of Ian fretting with his wrists. Such a soft sound, not so different from the whisper of Solas’s thumb stroking a freckled cheek. It was deceptively quiet, and he wondered if it was louder in his love’s ears. “The blame is no more yours than it is mine,” he murmured after a moment of quiet. His eyes opened as Ian settled against his chest. The touch was cool as a fresh pillow, before their shared warmth overcame the icy breeze.

His mouth opened, hoping to find the words to express what Ian meant to him, but instead he breathed. It did not hitch with laughter, but blew evenly across Ian’s left ear. Arms wrapped around his midsection, hands securing his love in place. “I will gladly find sleep in sunlight, if I spend my nights with you,” he said at length. “The quiet spots are not difficult to find.” Most days he relied upon Skyhold’s cat population to locate the warmest patch of earth to sleep on (though his settee had proven more comfortable when he was not sleeping alone).

He paused once more, leaving space for the breeze to whistle through the window. Sleep, and leave Ian alone. Linger with him until dawn’s light streaked the sky, and risk giving him another reason to feel guilty. Solas squeezed Ian between his elbows, forehead pressing against the back of his head.

No answer came to him, he thought nothing but a question. “Will you be well without me?” he asked at length.

* * *

Solas’s breath was warm against his ear, but the movement of air over sensitive skin inspired a sharp twitch. Ian’s own breath escaped him in a soft sigh, pulling his shoulders into a slump where he rested against Solas’s chest. Fretting at his wrists slowed, the pads of his fingers rubbing absently at the raised welts that had been left in the wake of his nails before he released them entirely, letting his hands fall to cover those that anchored at his waist. Gentle patterns birthed beneath his fingertips, fingers trailing over Solas’s knuckles and across the backs of his hands.

“It’s not the same.” He murmured. Though he had become accustomed to relying on quickly stolen naps to ease his exhaustion, he hated the thought of his own broken nights making such measures a necessity for Solas. “I’m–” He caught the apology before it was complete, knowing Solas did not wish to hear another despite his urge to offer it.

Solas’s question went without immediate acknowledgement, save a shudder that overtook his person as the wind stirred about them, chilling him where their skin did not touch. He knew the answer he should give, the only possible response, but he hesitated before speaking. The dishonesty of it heavied his tongue, and he pursed his lips faintly as he tried to compose an answer that would not inspire some sense of obligation from Solas–he didn’t want to be alone with his fear, but he would rather that than further disrupt his love’s night, especially knowing that tomorrow night would be the same, as would every night to follow it.

His head slid back, falling across Solas’s cheek to land against his shoulder. For a time, he did nothing but breathe, deep and steadying as he stared out, watching the moon without seeing more than the light it offered.

“Nights are meant for dreaming, Solas.” Ian’s hand slid up, knotting in the bangs that shadowed his brow, tugging and pulling at the sleep-mussed strands. The heel of his hand landed against his eye, and he rubbed away the last of the sleep that lingered there.

“I’ll…manage. I always have before.”

* * *

A freckled ear twitched, narrowly missing the tip of Solas’s nose. He inhaled ice and exhaled steam, a miracle that required not a single touch of magic. The slow scrape of nails against skin stopped, but Ian’s hands did not stop moving. They moved to the arms that encircled his waist, rubbing patterns across the back of weathered hands. He was much kinder to Solas’s hands than his own. Pressed together as they were, he could almost forget what his had done (and what they had not).

Reality pressed in around him, taking the shape of an elf that sank back onto his shoulder. Solas nosed Ian’s hair, not pressing for an answer to his question. They came faster than they once had, bitten back by lips who were not accustomed to being listened to, but Ian always found his voice. He listened to the sound of Ian breathing, wondering how well it matched with the heart that quickened within his chest. Red hairs tickled the tip of his nose, each inhale brought the heavy scent of earth into his lungs, as if Ian’s garden had followed them from the dream.

At last, he had his answer.

“I believe you,” he said, but he could not loose his hands from around Ian’s waist. Memories that were not his own swam in his head, manacled hands chained to walls that would never see sunlight, books with words that swam upon the page, all things Ian had weathered alone. Solas had no doubt that if he were to return to bed he would awake to Ian’s smile, but he did not desire to pull away. Not when his head provided the foundation which Ian fell against.

“But tonight, at least, you needn’t manage alone.”


End file.
